


Flying The Friendly Skies

by lesbomancy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Battle, Brazil, Conflict, Egypt, F/F, Female-Centric, Gen, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, POV Female Character, POV Lesbian Character, Plot, Switzerland, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, United Kingdom, United States
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbomancy/pseuds/lesbomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My own interpretation of Pharah, her lifestyle and her history. From starting as a low-level at Helix Security International to the reformed Overwatch. Expect fluff, battles, character development, heartache and rivalry. Point of view will change between Pharah, Mercy and Symmetra equally as they intertwine with her story. Guest appearances by the whole Overwatch crew as time goes on as well as Pharah's mother.</p><p>UPDATE: Unfortunately abandoned regularly for personal reasons. I'll update as I can but no promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Temple of Anubis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place long after the Pharah comic. Helix Industries has sold the AI complex to the Vishkar Corporation but... complications have not ceased. Now the lone remaining Raptora Combat Suit user from her original squad, Security Chief Pharah takes a full-frontal approach to the defense of the facility.

Flying high in the Raptora Mark VI combat suit, the stinging air in her face and the heat of the jump jets scorching her back through the armor. It was the first action she’d seen since she was with the militaryand she was blowing as many things up as she could, watching as refugees and soldiers scurried to and fro, protected only by her bird’s-eye view and as many rockets as she carried with her. Blast after blast cleared a path to a greater victory, a greater peace and order in the world as she descended upon what looked to be the enemy’s leader: a giant omnic, bipedal with more rockets than Pharah had and an attitude just as large.

She discarded the spent cylinder from her launch and locked in a new one, the launcher’s mechanism clamping into place as a small click was heard in her helmet. She was weapons ready just as the omnic leveled two giant rocket pods towards a group of soldiers, fellow Egyptians like her, and she slowly descended in front of it. Her jump jets burned loudly, the metal around it red hot as she kept level and aimed her launcher with both hands towards what passed for the robot’s face. Impersonal, almost lifeless recognizers not unseen on programmed vacuum cleaners and household appliances.

An eruption of fire came from the rocket pods, each projectile swirling towards Pharah as she began to fire, her world slowing down to the millisecond as the heat buffeted her exposed face, the bubbles of displaced air and flame from the omnic slowing down as each projectile careened towards her, the soldiers behind Fareeha firing over her combat suit just as slowly. Bullets from her back, rockets to her front and from her own weapon.

She blinked.

The Raptora Mark VI wasn’t like previous models. It didn’t need a switch to be flicked. She worked her jaw, looked right where she needed to and tensed her muscles. The armor opened up on the legs, arms, wings, and knuckles and over three hundred microrockets shot out in front of her as time picked back up, carving through the rockets intended for her and her comrades until none remained to threaten them. The massive explosion between her and the omnic scuffed the both of them, her tan armor browning with debris and smoke as shrapnel cut her chin, mouth and neck by the time both of their barrages were over with zero casualties between them. Her mouth skewed as she screamed loudly at the omnic, a savage war cry filled with equal amounts of terror and bravery as her finger gently squeezed the trigger like a thousand times before in a thousand training simulations.

In a flash of fire and shrapnel the omnic’s ocular sphere cracked, the red glow making the fluid look like blood as it leaked out, it’s arms swinging wildly and catching ancient stone buildings on the former town that had become a battlefield for the research done deep below the earth in the research complex behind Fareeha. She held the trigger down, rocket after rocket denting the armor, cracking more components. The plating began to give way as she fired the last chambered rocket, the internal systems visible as she ejected it to the ground below. The cylinder buried itself in the sand beside the stone road and she yelled loudly through her radio.

“Now! The wiring is exposed!”

Each of the soldiers behind her took aim down their rifles and aimed for the mass of wired and jointed sections, sparks and hydraulic fluid flying out from the small opening. The mass of friction and death caught fire quickly, the trail of fluid leaking down the bipedal robot’s leg becoming a flaming path to it’s feet. The push from the less armored soldiers with small arms crippled the robot and in the moment’s of it’s death Pharah watched it’s leg cock to the side before piling forward, munitionless as the last of it’s fuel burned up and exploded out of an internal tank on it’s now exposed back.

The battlefield behind her was littered with bodies, omnic and human alike but she was thankful that they were stopped before reaching the Temple of Anubis and, more importantly, the research there. A flashing light on her visor alerted her to a low fuel level and she disengaged her jets, landing with a thud in the sand before her deactivated, smoking opponent. The soldiers around her cheered, more than a few of them clapping her on the back as the medics and others ran to and fro, checking on the status of those were fell during the defense.

She felt too sick at the thought to turn around. Failing to defend those soldiers, no matter how they volunteered or what they were like, was a failure to her. Her smile faded and she cocked her leg up on one of the omnic’s apertures, ejecting the spent cylinder from her launcher and loading another, just to be certain. Even in the armor her body ached and screamed for a release from the assault, trails of blood staining her chin and neck from the battle. She knew her superiors were watching, not to mention the seniors among the soldiers there who had been defending the site from day one. No military service, no training program prepared her for the private sector, their all-seeing eye that refused nothing but the best. Their best, not necessarily Fareeha’s best.

After sharing a few handshakes and pats on the back from her comrades she lifted her hand up to her ear, clicking the radio on.

“Wepawet, this is Pharah. The field is clear and we have minimal loses.” She grinned, letting that cockiness take root. “All enemies eliminated with extreme prejudice.”

“Bloody good show, Pharah. Clean up, then report back to me. After some rest I think you earned a special detail - we’ve got a few VIPs who need a woman like you giving them life security. Wepawet out.”

The radio line went silent before she could respond. Not used to that, the almost casual air that her superior had. Despite this she felt good, looking at the big wreck in front of her and considering how many scientists and comrades she saved?

Not bad for her fourth day at Helix Security International.


	2. Symmetra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After defending the Vishkar Corporation's facility, Fareeha deals with the lingering effects of nearly dying and meets a mysterious woman she's told she has to protect, even if she's not sure that she needs it.

Pharah pulled her helmet off, a visible line of dirt and speckles of blood lining where her visor ended and her bare face was exposed in combat. She was back in the HSI armory and the other Raptora operators were already climbing out of their suits, far more banged up than she was after the assault on the facility by unknown omnics. She could see out of the open ramp which acted as their launch pad, nearly a hundred people alive or in a state of casualty, milling about as townspeople who lived in the small district of Giza picked up their lives once more.

She furrowed her brow, looking down at her combat suit. Despite a few scratches from loose shrapnel she was mostly without a mark. The sign of a good soldier, her mother would say. The Raptora Maintenance Team technician - a small woman in overalls with seemingly permanent grease stains on her face - stood before her, small gloved hands pushing her back into what passed as a dock for the armor. With a loud hiss she was locked into place and Pharah allowed the armor to open up at the back, stepping out onto the deck floor and assuming the check position like she had several times before. The technician took the helmet out of her hands as a spinning machine above Pharah’s head took her vitals and assessed her physical condition.

“You’re clear,” the technician said. “City has the all-clear signal and all Raptora suits accounted for.

The technician approached a bench, grabbing a can of spray paint. She shook the can and placed a stencil over the breastplate of Pharah’s suit of armor. When she removed the stencil she exposed a clean set of four strikes.

“I thought I only got three?” Pharah said.

“Nah! Four! The whole maintenance crew was watching from the security feed. One of them blew up and sent shrapnel right into another ‘bot. It counts - we voted on it before you got back.”  
Fareeha nodded, tugging at the black bodysuit which covered her from the neck down. “Who are they-.. the combatants?”

“No idea. Wepawet says they’re still waiting on intel, mop-up stuff. You know how Vishkar works.”

“A lot of enemies,” Pharah said. “Whoever they are, they were shooting at civilians.”

“They were omnics. Not like they were bloody Shambali - er, pardon the language, Chief.”

“No, always speak your mind. A good leader listens.” Pharah shrugged.

“And a good tech sticks to the machine,” the short woman grinned as she tugged a wheeled cart next to the Raptora suit. “... but that big fucker was something, wasn’t it?”

“Never fought anything like it. For a second I thought I wasn’t going to make it against something that combat capable.”

“Figure most people who have are deep in the ground. Big ol’ rockets! I can’t believe your charges managed to detonate each of them. Shit, any other operator and it would’ve been lights out and a trip to the next of kin for Wepawet. The things these suits can do - I mean, flying like a jet with half the waste? Fighting something five-.. no, SIX times as big as you with a lot more guns? It’s brilliant.”

“It was an experience,” Pharah confirmed.

“Yeah!” The technician exclaimed, fixing a helmet on before priming her welding tool. “... and I hate to break it short, but I do have to make sure you’re good to go at a moment’s notice. No excuses, says the boss man.”

“Of course, don’t worry about it. Keep me flying?”

“You bet, Chief!”

Pharah lifted her gloved hand to rub at the bridge of her nose, her other waving at the technician who was already hard at work at banging out the kinks on her armor. HSI was a good work environment for a former soldier, doubly so if you were wanting to protect something. They offered the best defensive services internationally with no questions asked and as soon as Pharah went through orientation and training she was promoted to Security Chief for the entire site, one of three for the whole of Giza.

It was different in a lot of ways from the military. Uniforms were more based on aesthetic and, well, she had a suit of power armor and a rocket launcher instead of her normal kit she spent nearly ten years with. Her comrades and her superiors were desensitized to it all, the corporate machinery which replaced the industrialized military which she was accustomed to. The components were the same, they just moved differently. She was at least glad it was easy to fall in line, to perform her job and even enjoy the perks of going private. Fareeha boarded an elevator which took her to her suite far up in the facility. An amazing apartment, great pay and all the benefits she could ever need, including reconstructive surgery and cybernetics should she fall into the deepest of shits and lose a body part.

Her hands began to shake as she stood alone in the elevator, her heartbeat and the crushing weight of adrenaline wearing off and pulling the body every which way becoming more prominent. She braced herself against a handrail, leaning into the wall as her legs wobbled and she found it hard to breathe for several seconds. She closed her eyes, matted sweaty hair falling around her face and making her even more hot than she already was, making it sweatier and harder to concentrate on getting better.

Fareeha pressed her back to the wall, both hands pulling her hair back as she breathed like the first time after a long dive, the cooler air almost sickeningly sweet in it’s relief as it poured over her battle-stained face. Inhale and count to five. Exhale and count to five. Life lessons from her mother, a career soldier… one who had the prestigious duty of serving on Overwatch, hand-selected. Unlike her. Fareeha was of age and experience when Overwatch was still organized properly but she never was selected. The one time she thought she was going to, the headquarters in Zurich exploded.

The elevator dinged, ripping her from her own thoughts. She thanked Allah that it was her apartment and not another passenger. Pretending to be sociable was not on the list right now, not when her body felt like jelly and every movement was like tugging around a sack of rocks attached to each limb. It took most of her strength to stand up straight before her door and let the facial recognition software scan her.

“Voice sample,” a robotic voice ordered from the intercom.

It was eerie, just like the omnic from before. A small red eye which watched her every movement, though she knew it wasn’t an artificial intelligence. It was programmed, it wasn’t sentient, it was just a computer meant to keep her door locked and her fridge just as cold as she wanted it to. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Fareeha Amari,” she said quietly.

The intercom buzzed at her, the doorknob turning by itself and flinging open by itself like a horror movie cliche. She pushed past it quickly, slamming it shut with her foot with a swift kick. The concealing bodysuit she wore under her armor had it’s zipper down to her stomach in moments and Fareeha was peeling it off of herself, gasping and stumbling to her bedroom. The apartment itself was moderately decorated, the walls a series of commendations and pictures of her family and military history.  
Proud, ordered memorabilia took second stage as her hand slammed down against one portrait of a fresh-faced Fareeha in Egyptian Army BDUs. Her nails dug into it and the wall as she struggled to see straight. The flying, the motion, the hell and the death were still so new to her - she’d seen death before, she’d seen so much of it in the military but knowing full well that she should have died earlier made her feel ill. She wiggled free of the bodysuit as she braced herself against the wall and tore her sports bra and underpants free as well, hand grasping the doorframe as she all but flung herself into the shower.

The automatic features on her apartment flashed on and the orb above the showerhead watched as it knew exactly what to do, programmed to serve Fareeha like a butler without a body and a million eyes. Cool, soft water splashed across Pharah’s naked body and she slumped down, back against the wall, until she sat on the floor of the shower stall as she let herself soak. She leaned forward and began to wash her hair, not bothering to make it to a second rinse before her head lolled back in protest against the activity.

Eyes closed and the signature battle mark she always made for herself each combat mission began to finally smudge with the rest of the dirt, smoke and blood pancaked onto her face. She ran her fingers up and down her body, checking each piece of her to make sure it was there. Arms, legs, feet, shoulders, stomach, face, neck.. It was there. 

She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep. Long enough of a nap for the robot in her home to shut off the water, for her entire body and the tile around her in the shower stall to be completely dry but not long enough for the sun to have set just yet. Fareeha held her hands out in front of her, watching them remain steady as they were after any other meltdown. Instead of cheating death, she thought, maybe I’ll never be where I have to cheat again.

Fareeha slowly pushed herself up, her body aching from the undertow of jerking motions that came with flying and being passed out on cold, hard tile flooring for at least several hours. Her faculties were back to what they were and she pulled a towel from a stack of them, freezing in place as she realized that she was already dry. Her naturally curly hair came undone from its de-stressed state, the only bits refusing to frizz up being the braids in front of her ears. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed, mentally noting to straighten her hair again at some point before her assignment tomorrow.

Heavy feet dragged their way through the apartment as she checked her messages (none) and her e-mail (none) before crawling onto her bed and sprawling out, limbs outstretched as far as they could be without straining muscle. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep again. A deep and dreamless rest which seemed like a neverending void for the soldier of the skies. She was used to getting eight hours or more since she joined up with HSI but after that day she had to have slept a combined total of nearly ten. She remained unbothered, her part of the battle already spoken for.

The deep, loud monotonous tone of the robotic notification system woke her up. Her body jerked to a sitting position, cool and naked. The screen mounted on the wall opposite the bed showed she had an incoming call from her superior - Wepawet. Video calls for something of a luxury and she scrambled to find a fresh sports bra and a tank top before swiping her hand in the air in front of the screen to take the call. The image of a graying older man with strong, square features filled up the profile box - he was in his office, clearly, sitting in HSI BDUs and sitting up straight in a leather chair that only private military could afford.

“Chief Amari, glad to see you among the living,” he said with a smirk.

“Yes, Commander. Is it time for that assignment you spoke of?”

“Straight to business, Pharah? Slow it down.”

“Apologies, Commander.”

“None necessary. Unless I start the call with an order you can afford to take it slowly. Breathe a little, enjoy being a civilian for once.”

Pharah smiled some. Wepawet was an odd individual, part commander and part obsessive father figure. He had a charm to him, definite leadership potential which when she first was interviewed by him he insisted that she naturally had herself with a stern poke to her collarbone with one of his stubby fingers.

“Alright,” she paused. “How are you?”

“Fantastic. Next question.”

“I… normally do not get this far.”

Wepawet laughed heartily, smiling. “Don’t worry, I can’t contain the soldier for long, eh? Go ahead.”

“How bad was the damage? Did we lose anyone?”

“Moderate at best. Property damage was phenomenal. Vishkar Corporation is going to be flying over some of their brightest and best to rebuild civvie shacks for free. Only lost two people, and we’re out a Raptora suit - Eriksson isn’t going to be combat capable for a long time, he took some bad shrap to the nerves in his arm.”

Pharah frowned visibly. She wanted to stand up and storm out of the room to see Eriksson, realizing that doing so would flash her direct superior. Maybe she should’ve put on pants first.

“Is he going to live?”

“Yeah, and he’ll be training new Raptora recruits per his request. He’ll be okay, maybe you can use that e-mail that you’ve had since we hired you for once in your life.”

“Professional mailing address. Conversing with Eriksson would be a personal correspondence.”

“Then personally correspond. The other Chiefs aren’t half as good as you were out there and they need some of that Amari inspiration.”

“I’ll do tha-..”

“You’ll do it later. We got a Vishkar VTOL inbound in forty minutes and one of the passengers is your protection detail. Standard gig - watch, listen and obey the brat for two months.”

“Two months? What about the installation here in Giza.”

“Vishkar owned,” Wepawet shrugged. “They want my best on their best. You’re my best. They trust that their architechs are going to be good enough to protect the facility. Not HSI’s problem if it isn’t - we’re damn good sponges for punishment. Don’t worry, your apartment won’t move an inch - think of it like a cruise.”

“A violent one, probably.”

“Probably, Chief. You’re going to a few hot zones that I know of in the latter parts of the detail but for the most part you’re just going to be protecting her from the odd ne’er-do-well, most likely.”

“Who is it?”

“Vishkar Corporation Architech. Satya Vaswani, codenamed Symmetra.”

Pharah nodded once, clearing her throat. “Will I need my armor?”

“And a bag with anything you’re traveling with. Armor will be loaded onto the transport. Dress comfortably - from what I understand you’re going to be in flight for a long time.”

“Yes, Commander. Anything else I should know?”

“Nothing worth talking about. Dossier on her is in your mailbox now, so check it if you get the chance. Try to get along with her, heard she’s a bit of a pariah among her type but knowing Vishkar that just means she’s not got a rod up her ass.”

Wepawet leaned forward, finger beside the camera which posed as his screen. “And don’t forget to put some pants on next time.”

The call ended, Pharah’s mouth hanging open as she looked down at herself. Her legs were closed but she could see on the monitor feedback that it was clear to Wepawet that she hadn’t been wearing anything below the waist. Her hands went up and brushed back the poofy mass of frizzy, curly hair before she stood up and let out a woeful scream. Fucking up was not the Amari way, not the way she was trained to perform as. Her jaw grinded as she packed a back, getting dressed in her HSI BDUs.

With a duffel bag full of essentials she turned back to the bathroom, hastily doing her make-up and brushing her teeth after a rigorous hair relaxation session which took nearly thirty of her forty minute time frame. By the end of it she was rushing out of the door, stopping only to check her e-mail so she knew which VTOL would be Symmetra’s and what the woman actually looked like. She barely looked put together and running down the stairs didn’t help that, nor did running across the entire building’s length to the private landing strip.

By the time she arrived to where the VTOL was supposed to land it was already taxiing and preparing to lower the back ramp, personnel milling about the ship as they unloaded cargo and hooked up a fuel line to the vessel. Pharah set her duffel bag down, panting as the ramp lowered and a group of well-dressed Vishkar Architechs exited the vessel. It was the first time Pharah had seen any of them, dressed in futuristic business suits befitting the Utopean corporation. She remembered reading science fiction as a child, old science fiction from when her mother was a kid that described outfits like the Arcitechs. Pointed ear-like appendages on head visors which made it hard to tell if they were looking at images from the inside or making eye contact with the decidedly plainly dressed Egyptian woman.

She felt embarrassed, eyes cast away from the group that disembarked and to the side as she watched the luggage get pulled around by the locals who would soon have their houses rebuilt, better and bigger than before for no extra charge. A few minor curfews to ensure building would go well and they’d have the Utopean life that made everyone better - at least that was the sales pitch.

“Standing there idly is doing you no favors.”

Pharah looked up. Heavily accented English; Indian, from a metropolitan area. It had to be…

Symmetra. The business suit she wore was elegant in all the ways the others were and then some, almost like it had something extra in its very design, softer edges and flowing fabric which covered her from her neck to the hem of her pants. Even her wedged heels were.. soft, in their own way. Her skin, darker than Pharah’s, was blemishless and she looked the part of a goddess with her hair in an elaborate updo and perfect make-up. She felt her heart skip a beat as she made eye contact with the Architech, her long light blue painted nails tapping away on her exposed cybernetic arm as if to accentuate how long she had been waiting, even though it had to be only a few seconds. The file did say she was impatient.

“Security Chief Fareeha Amari. I’m to be your protection detail.” Pharah leaned down to pick up her duffel bag, offering her hand to Symmetra.

“Symmetra. I did ask for the most stunning guard and I see they actually listened for once. Not that I really need a guard.”

The Architech shook Fareeha’s hand with her metallic one, the rubber-like artificial flesh on the palms warm to the touch almost as if it were real, the cold parts of the digits giving Fareeha goosebumps all over. She was taken aback by the compliment, her cheeks darkening.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Miss Symm-..”

“Symmetra. Simply Symmetra. You’re welcome. We’re flying to Brazil once they’re done fueling - and I believe that is your suit?” A light blue fingernail pointed out, making an invisible line to a large crate being loaded underneath the VTOL.

The housing pod for the Raptora Mark VI combat suit.

“Yes, M-... Symmetra. Self-repair and maintenance module. If we encounter any trouble, I will be able to be out on the field within several hours even in the event of catastrophic damage to the suit.”

“That won’t happen,” Symmetra said. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t the best.”

“I have faith that I will be able to protect you fully during my detail.”

Symmetra made a dismissive sound, turning and making her way towards the VTOL.

“Are you coming, or do I have to drag you?”

Pharah bit the inside of her cheek hard. She started after the Architech, keeping her pace close to Symmetra’s, her heavy boots thudding along the lightweight click of the Architech’s heels on the tarmac. As they boarded the ramp Fareeha could see the opulence of the Vishkar corporation. On the outside it was a simple VTOL but on the inside it may as well have been a penthouse lounge, complete with a small bar and entertainment center. The formation was rigid and utilitarian much like all other Vishkar architech placement but there was comfort in it.

Symmetra stopped before her seat, setting down with a wry smile as she watched Pharah take in her surroundings.

“Sit when you want, mind the door. It’s a long trip to Rio.”

“What’s in Rio?” Pharah asked, her voice low as she moved to the empty seat next to Symmetra.  
The Architech looked Pharah up and down, the soldier’s choice to sit so close without so much as a thought giving her pause. She took off her visor, setting it on the table next to herself as she closed her eyes and got comfortable while sitting up. The VTOL’s ramp went up, a wall of light appearing where the rug of the lounge-like main area ended and the mechanicals of the VTOL began. As the VTOL began to taxi again, Symmetra answered with a wide smile.

“Harmony and order, Miss Amari.”


	3. Cabin Chatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Symmetra and Pharah converse and agree to a little date while on their way to Brazil.

Flying was a comforting experience to Pharah, more than any warm blanket could ever provide. The dull thrum of the VTOL’s engines, the sway of the cabin as they cut through air faster than any plane in the years before could ever hope to - it reminded her of her childhood and the burning desire she had to just fly. Jets, helicopters, anything. Every toy she had as a little girl involved flight of some sort and back in Giza in her corporate apartment she still had the model she made with her mother when she was eight - an old 1960’s era propeller fighter plane, one that her great, great grandfather piloted.

She took comfort in that small kernel, that despite her mother being more inclined to use a sniper rifle that she supported her daughter’s silly dreams of flight. Yet with the Raptora combat suit her silly little dreams had become a reality, she could literally stretch her wings and fly. Pharah looked about the VTOL’s interior, noting how deliriously decadent it was, as if the corporate 1% were offended by the idea of them traveling in anything less than first class, even aboard a heavy duty military and construction vessel.

Satya’s blue fingernails reached into her vision, the woman plucking a piece of lint off of Pharah’s pants. Fareeha looked up, brows cocked at the action. The Vishkar Architech didn’t even look over as she spoke.

“It was bothering me,” Satya muttered. She flicked the piece of dust in a nearby wastebin.

“Yeah.. of course. Thank you.”

Pharah ran her hand over where Satya plucked the piece of fabric from, looking straight ahead as she lamented the fact that she forgot nearly all of her non-professional communication devices. Her phone, her laptop, her wraparound smartwatch - all of it was sitting back in her apartment. Her duffel was combat essentials, one formal outfit, utilities and a spare change of casual clothes. Other than her BDUs, she would have to OSP anything else she needed wherever they went.

“So we’re going to Brazil? I heard that Vishkar just got the contract, used the down payment to buy Helix out of the Anubis AI.”

“Correct. I was there for the ceremony… Calado was found wanting,” Symmetra said quietly.  
“A rival?”

“Who-... oh, no, not anymore. Calado was our competitor. They suffered an… accident and the mayor choose Vishkar for the contract. We just finished the city center and now we’re going back to rebuild the slums for the people now that we have the time. I’m leading the team.”

“That’s very noble. My mother always told me great things about what Vishkar could do. With your…” Pharah nodded to Satya’s arm.

“Hard-Light Constructs.”

“Right. There are a lot of people looking forward to seeing how clean and orderly Vishkar can make it for the downtrodden. These people have needed help for over a century… and if I’m bodyguarding you, I suppose that makes me part of the effort, doesn’t it?”

“In a way,” Satya confirmed. “Before the Architechs we would need thousands of people to help build this utopia for them. Loud.. unruly machinery, robots, foremen and hard hats, all of these things taking up time and precious money. There would be,” she winced, “accidental deaths, probably. Terrible noise from the machines and more renewable Earth resources wasted so they could degrade quickly, unappreciated.”

“Instead,” she continued, her fingertips rubbing together as she gestured to the room. “One Architech could create a room this vibrant, this detailed in only an hour. Given six hours and several of us we could make a home, with the twenty there are waiting for us in Rio de Janiero we can build a skyscraper in a morning. Having a cute soldier to watch us work is not what I would consider a downside… and with that suit of yours you can catch me if I fall.”

“I would love to,” Pharah said unintentionally. Her eyes went wide and she smiled awkwardly towards the ground as the two shared a thick, hellish silence. Symmetra was as equally frozen in thought.

“Just meant that I like to fly, it’s why I joined Helix Security Industries. I never got the chance to be a combat pilot in the military on account of my vision.”

Symmetra was quiet and distant for a time, swiping along on her computer’s interface with one hand as she typed with her other. Fareeha wondered if the display was even connected to the keyboard, her eyes daring to look at Symmetra’s visor, noticing a thousand little things moving hither and thither faster than she could register. If Pharah didn’t know better, she’d presume that Symmetra was an omnic with how fast she was working.

“Vishkar did the same for me,” Symmetra said quietly. She touched her visor’s side, disabling the display and placing the interface on the table before her with her work computer. She offered her hand out between the two of them, flexing it and showing off it’s pliable rubber grips which substituted for skin.

“I thought I would never be a whole woman. In Hyderabad, after the omnics... murdered everyone they gave me the arm. I went to their academy. My life in the sensory assaulting slum ended and my time among peers began. We were all poor, every one of the Architechs came from poor backgrounds. We were called geniuses and then we,-... we got to build our cities back. We rebuilt India. Vishkar let my mind fly like Helix lets your body fly.”

Symmetra was smiling by now, Pharah leaning back to stare at her and watch her face.

“Never thought that working for a corporation would make your dream come true, did you?”

“No,” Symmetra said.

“Neither did I. Good to know that corporations aren’t all evil. An institution made of people can do some real good.”

Satya smiled, her jaw setting as she remembered how Vishkar got the contract. The little girl, her flesh shaved off and melting as she cradled the girl surrounded by debris. She was tense and spacing, her hand rising to rub at her temple. Pharah relaxed in her seat, her camouflage pant leg touching the pressed suit that Symmetra wore. It was normal touching, nothing spectacularly intimate yet she got excited nonetheless, ripped from the self-pity and doubt in Vishkar and pulled back to where she was. Sitting, alone, in a luxury cabin with a beautiful muscular woman.

“It-.. it is good to know, yes. I believe that is why Vishkar chose Helix for the defense contract. Brazil is becoming increasingly hostile as we try to help them and we need aerial superiority. An architech is not fragile but we can be overwhelmed.”

“The protests?” Pharah asked.

“Yes. They are becoming more frequent. Even with the city center open to all and our plans for expansion detailed.”

“They are afraid of being pushed aside. After the war we had so many refugees, so many people without places to live. Rebuilding seemed like relocation.”

“That’s not what we’re doing! It would be a day, one building a day. We could build them a self-sustaining skyscraper with clean water and electricity, climate controlled with order and medicine for their children. Schools and education built up instead of ignored.”

“I understand entirely. There is always the human element… we’ve always been afraid. People who grow up and live in fear and poverty have a right to distrust authority.”  
“Not when that authority is trying to save them.”

Pharah smirked.

“Then maybe the beautiful Vishkar Corporation architech next to me will be the one to win their trust over. Maybe I won’t even need to fire a single rocket.”

“One can only hope.” Symmetra paused, her fingernails tapping on her knee. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Very much so. You have sharp eyes, they look… kind. It reminds me of my former Captain. He had the same look you have.”

“Most people tell me I look lost. Out of my element.”

“People who are uncomfortable often know how to hide it. Maybe I just think you’re pretty - I can stop if you wish. Just an observation.”

“And if I do not want you to stop?” Satya said quickly. Her words were panicky and fast.

“I-... could continue complimenting you. It would be easy.” Pharah laughed nervously.

 

Symmetra was quiet. She picked up her visor and placed it back over her ear. Her pointer and middle finger pressed on the module and the interface went across her face again. Pharah furrowed her brow, confused at the exchange. She sat forward as Symmetra lost herself in her visor, eyes darting back and forth wildly for almost a full half-hour. Pharah wasn’t sure if what she said was wrong, though she wasn’t going to lie for the comfort of a corporate agent. She did have a bad habit of misjudging if women were interested in her, though, always seemingly falling for the heterosexual ones. Her eyes became heavy as the to-and-fro of the VTOL began to rock her to sleep, a habit of her lifestyle.

Her eyes eventually closed for good and her head drifted to the side, her hair hanging over towards the empty seat as she threatened to fall asleep.

“The building where we are staying has a restaurant in it,” Symmetra said firmly.

“Wha-.. huh?” Pharah jumped to sit up straight, mumbling and alert.

“Vishkar’s city center. There is a restaurant inside of it on the 45th floor. Would you like to join me for dinner after we land?”

“Dinner? Oh… uh, what kind of restaurant is it?”  
“Indian food. If you do not like it there are a few other places nearby which are less… orderly, but they can make do if you want something different.”

Pharah adjusted to look at Symmetra, leaning on the armrest to her right with an amused expression. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“I am. Do you like Indian or not?”

“Haven’t had it before,” Pharah smiled. “I’m willing to try.”

“So long as you let me pay… and you keep complimenting me. You may order as much as you want.”

“I’ll pay for myself. But I think I’ll keep complimenting you anyway.”

Pharah’s knee bumped into Symmetra’s as the Egyptian sat forward once more. Symmetra kept her leg pressed against it even when she settled in. She took her visor off again, setting it down as she leaned back and set her hair on her left shoulder. Her head leaned back into the plush cushioned seats and she closed her eyes.

“It’s a date,” Satya said. “I made reservations for three hours after our arrival.”

“That’s quick.”

“We will have our things in order by then.”

“And if I don’t?” Pharah asked.

“Then I’ll eat alone. Nothing will change.”

“I’ll let you know if I have second thoughts, then.”

“Please do. For now I should get some rest. My eyes hurt.”

Pharah let out a small grunt of affirmation as Symmetra closed her eyes. She was impressed with how quickly that she fell asleep, the architech snoring softly within minutes of closing her eyes. It didn’t take long for Symmetra’s head to loll to the side against Pharah’s shoulder. Fareeha smirked to herself, wondering where - if anywhere - this could go. The battle from the day before still taking it’s toll, Pharah’s eyes became heavy again and she leaned against Symmetra. The two shared the rest of the trip to Brazil sleeping against one another, peaceful and without intrusion.

The jerking motion of the VTOL landing in Rio at the Vishkar Corporation’s city center woke Pharah up. She unbuckled herself from her seat and stood up, stretching and yawning as she retrieved her duffel, looking around the cabin for Symmetra. Satya had both of her bags, struggling with neither of the sizable duffels, and wiggled back and forth on the heels of her shoes, waiting for the door to open. She smiled as Pharah stumbled beside her, the soldier rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Sunlight nearly blinded them both as the ramp came down, exposing the landing pad and several maintenance personnel milling about, refueling and checking the vessel as it cooled down. Pharah’s eyes went wide as she saw over the landing pad; it was high, nearly fifty stories high in the city center building. She could see the favelas, bustling and… amazing. A hive-like mass of human activity, color and life.

“Welcome to Brazil, Chief Amari.” Satya said, “We are going to be here for a while.”


	4. Astute Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Diving right back into the story our perspective shifts to Dr. Angel Ziegler, working with the United Nations and Interpol to track down the identity of the Talon mercenaries hitting up old Overwatch facilities, using her vast knowledge pool to hopefully discover something actionable.

The thick, olive green doors struggled to open up. The police officer manning the door slammed his fist on the panel in frustration. One of the doors managed to slid away fully, the other jerking, stuck on it’s track. Bullet holes and marks stained the entirety of the facility so far and as the closest former Overwatch operative, Dr. Angela Ziegler was brought in to help the investigation. Her history of cooperation made her the obvious choice by the lead Interpol detective, she’d been vital in identifying Talon Corporation as an entity and connecting all of their attacks to Overwatch caches and dismantled bases. The Doctor was dressed casually, not one to don the Valkyrie suit unless someone was in danger.

She and a group of investigators walked through the struggling sets of doors, Angela’s pumps clicking on the metal grated floor as the memories of the base flooded her mind, distracting her from her prided objectivity. It was easy for her to think like an enemy of the once-famous Overwatch. Between the the testimony she’d given and her willingness to serve the United Nations she was likely the only former Overwatch agent in good standing with any government. Lena was notoriously brash, having made enemies of nearly everyone as her vigilantism got her in hot water time and time again. Winston escaped public light, especially when the questions about his origins and the Lunar colony propped up. Genji, the problematic playboy turned troubled ronin, traveled the world with an Omnic spiritual pariah. An odd choice, though she understood that people dealt with their trauma differently upon becoming what amounted to a cyborg.

Torbjorn ran off to the woods or something. She expected that, he was always deathly afraid of Omnics and the Second Omnic War was looking to be worst than the last, even if it was centralized. She always wished she had his singular mind and dedication on how to stop things. Too mathematical - she felt too much for engineering. Even if it made her doctoring a detriment at times, it was better than feeling nothing at all. Reinhardt never stopped, the Bundeswehr taking him back as a one-man riot control force. He’d stop civil unrest just with his presence along.

He had a knack - a passion - for people. He would always give them a chance to explain themselves. Angela went with him once, during an uprising in Zurich when Overwatch was still together. He sat on an overturned car and spoke with everyone at length, offering his hands out in good faith. Never a man to harm an innocent, almost fearful to use the Crusader Suit as a weapon. He knew exactly what made him a good soldier and he purposefully used it sparingly.

She assumed Gabriel died. The procedure she used to reconstruct him was a complete failure. She blamed herself despite her conscience telling her that he tried to kill everyone, including her, just because he wasn’t the leader. McCree wanted no part in his uprising either, the man leaving back to the western United States with a new lease on life though she assumed the drinking problem was his coping mechanism for losing a mentor to ambition and greed.

Multitudes of others had their own troubles. Some took their lives. Others followed Lena’s poor example and tried their hand at off-brand heroism. Others let their darker impulses take control and-...

Angela pulled a small flashlight from the breast pocket of her jacket, flashing a series of scorch marks that caught her eye. Pulse rifle rounds, though not a public make and model. Older, too. She furrowed her golden brow and followed the line that the rounds made, one of the small impact craters having a dried bloodstain peppered around it.

She walked up to the stain, pulling on a set of blue latex gloves before scratching at the mark on the wall. The blood seemed almost alive, pulsing and pulling like liquid metal to a magnet. Even as Angela broke her kit out she knew who the blood belonged to. Gabriel Reyes - or “Reaper” as he now called himself. A murderous monster which she tried to bring back to life, incomplete and always changing. The last time she saw him he was a mass of flesh, undulating and reforming constantly.

Her failure. His pain.

One scraping from the wall was all she needed. Her blood analyzer from Overwatch connected now to Interpol and the United Nations. She had most civilian and government databases at her disposal.

[CONFIRMED MATCH] flashed over Gabriel’s pre-uprising mugshot, a handsome latino man in Army BDUs and a matching beret. He never was one to smile. Despite his dossier saying he died years ago in Zurich she knew that this meant he was on the move again. The last time he was after the Doomfist… now what was he after? The facility had been raided time and time again by gangsters and other criminals and little of consequence was even left.

So who fought Gabriel? Fighting against Talon was considered a bad idea. Local police avoided it, some governments outright denied their existence. They struck against omnic and human alike, with no care for casualties… and they were insanely well-trained despite the occasional bout with new recruits who’d end up at a United Nation hearing for terrorism. Cleaning up after them was hassle enough, even with Angela trying to help in Europe they were everywhere; Asia, the United States, even Antarctica. Sometimes all at once, too. Even the best crime scene analysts drew blanks, so the majority of investigation with Talon was wiping blood from the floors and walls, saying how much of a tragedy it was an condemning Overwatch. She hated it, how standard it became, but it was logical. It was lawful. 

Angela brought her flashlight back up, the path of the pulse rifle “bullet” holes guiding her down a corridor, away from the team. It wasn’t uncommon for the Doctor to wander and find things, they first discovered it was Talon at work when she managed to find the DNA of a known associate on a crisp bag and cigarette discarded in a sniper’s tower. The deeper she went, the more of a battle she found. Bent metal fencing, dents in the wall, signs of explosions and doors hanging off of their hinges. Old age didn’t make a man-sized imprint on a set of metal lockers, nor did it shatter glass in the shape of a fist.

Lucky, she thought as she edged a dried tear of blood from the pane of glass. Too wide to be Gabriel’s shoulders. She edged the sample into a new slide and placed it into the analyzer, hitting the search button. Angela climbed down to where the fight continued, a dented maintenace door fluttering open and closed her answer. She followed the path, three sets of stairs down to the source of the base’s power: a hydroelectric dam.

What started looking like a fight now seemed to be a pursuit. Shotgun shells littered the pathway down to the turbines, the sound of rushing water becoming overwhelming. She stopped short of a discarded shotgun, one of Gabriel’s, a jammed shell bent and misshapen in the ejection port. Her breathing was shaky as she tried to piece together the incident from bootprints and blood smears, though it was abundantly clear that one or both of them were thrown into the waters below. No bootprints, nowhere else to run… this was the end of the line for Interpol at the moment. It’d take months to determine where something washed up and by then Talon would be in another country, terrorizing others.

She reached for her radio, the ding of completion indicating that the blood match for the second sample was done. Angela looked to the analyzer and her face paled, her shoulders shrunk. The face of another dead man stared back at her, the man she once called Strike Commander. Her lips quivered as the name burrowed into her skull, a needless torment for the regretful doctor.

Jack Morrison.


	5. Unrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After nearly two months on a protection detail, Fareeha admits some feelings to her charge amidst rising unrest in Rio de Janeiro.

Every trip to the tower was exactly the same. Protesters lined the streets to the clean and near invincible Vishkar tower. If they had fruit to throw, no doubt they'd throw it; instead it was usually stones, garbage, or something was thrown under the limousine's undercarriage in an attempt to upset its balance. It never worked, Fareeha noticed, Vishkar construction was simply too good to be bested by the anger of a wronged people. Despite Satya's reputation as a solo agent, the rising tensions in Brazil led to a little outsourcing. Security Chief for a high-ranking woman such as Satya was an operation one couldn't say no to, not unless she wanted her career ended with the flick of a pen stroke or the period at the end of an e-mail that treated her life as disposable as a plastic spoon.

It wasn't all bad. In nearly two months she'd grown accustomed to Satya's particular way of doing things. Everything in her temporary apartment had to be rearranged and once it was, things seldom changed. The Vishkar woman had her rituals and Fareeha saw no need to disrupt them after seeing the results the first time. Satya had misplaced something trivial, the hyper-fixation causing her to nearly miss an important meeting with local government leaders until she found it. The level of stress that Satya underwent gave Fareeha a good picture of what she went through and how much stronger she was for putting on a full face for the world every day. It did make her question her presence, as someone as strong as Satya didn't need a caretaker or protector with how she approached all her problems with that drive for order.

A few dinners here and there broke the time up. She favored a rocket launcher, but the HSI standard-issue pulse pistol would do well enough against anyone who meant Satya harm. Like the crowd throwing stones outside, the majority of people were unarmed, supposedly due to it being a utopia without violence. Though outside the well-kept main thoroughfares, Fareeha saw how phony it all was. People were poor, weapons access was kept at a stranglehold and companies like Vishkar kept buying up land and pushing away the poor towards favelas more and more each day, giving them no chance to organize, keeping them just hungry enough to be upset and too tired to do anything. Order had its price, she thought, and the price wasn't something that the rich would ever pay.

Satya believed every morsel fed to her by her higher ups. Fareeha rarely caught the meetings and calls that Satya did have but the few that she was able to listen to proved that she was being willfully manipulated. They used her dreams, motivations, her being on the spectrum, to twist until she caved into their way of seeing things; until the only way of achieving order was the Vishkar way. It drove her up the wall to the point of physical rage, though a full hour with a punching bag full of sand each night was enough to harden her knuckles and keep her on track. Half a world away from anyone she knew or loved in a hotbed of cultural and class revolution didn't mean it was time to grow morals. She'd be stuck there, fired, or killed. Or at least that's what she told herself.

At some point, Satya noticed how utterly frustrated she was. They had a private lunch last week where it was directly addressed, and the physical chemistry between them couldn't have been thicker. Fareeha beat it off of her mind nearly every time they stood too close in an elevator and she noticed how amazing that Satya smelled, or how her hand nearly always rubbed against her leather jacket in times of stress. It calmed her down, kept her focused, so Fareeha let it happen more than she should've. They'd barely spoken a full hour in two months beyond orders and responses but still, living next to one another and seeing her each morning before she dressed up and put on her face, Fareeha felt they'd had a connection and rapport. Maybe it was wishful thinking, the drive of a lonely lesbian smitten by a pretty woman. Even with the small amounts of flirting they'd had, she'd been let on before. Used. Was this that?

The lunch was a cleansing point for many of her frustrations, a lot of which Satya shared. Though it only cemented that there was something unprofessional between them. Satya mentioned that Fareeha's fatigues were her favored pant on Fareeha, that it made her look and feel like something she'd never seen before. Sparks nearly shot out of Fareeha's eyes when Satya took her shoe off and stroked her leg with her ankle. The presence of it was something she was unprepared for. Even now, thinking back on it as she sat in the car, her cheeks reddened as she remembered the look in Satya's eyes wh-...

A large stone landed against the window behind her, causing her to be torn from her thoughts. The window didn't have so much as a scuff mark, though Satya noticed her bodyguard's change in demeanor from casual mode to a general alert.

"Falling asleep, Ms. Amari?"

"Caught me by surprise," she paused. "I wouldn't dream of it, ma'am."

Satya hummed thoughtfully, casting her eyes back down to the PDA in her hands. Once again, the limousine's cabin was accented with the sound of items crashing against the armored car's exterior, like an uneven and willfully angry downpour of rain. Satya slowly edged herself to the middle of the limousine's seating, roughly an armrest width's away from Fareeha.

"It bothers me, too, Ms. Amari."

Fareeha straightened up, noticing she was under scrutiny. At least her aviators hid the doe-eyed expression she had. She cursed how beautiful Satya was, how she never knew what to do with her hands when Satya bore into her with that thoughtful, fierce look.

"Fareeha is good enough."

"Pardon?" Satya said, still staring at the woman next to her.

"You've been calling me 'Ms. Amari' for nearly two months. I think we're familiar enough for you to call me Fareeha."

"Would that not be unprofessional?"

"No, ma'am. I think we've established that there is... a-... a deeper... depth to our relationship beyond professional."

Staya laughed softly, curling her bottom lip under her top. It readjusted with a wet 'pop' when she couldn't fight the smile any longer.

"How deep is that depth, Fareeha?"

"Enough to... think foolish things."

Fareeha's skin goose-pimpled as she caught view of Satya's eyes. Somewhere in the small exchange, Satya had scooted closer. One of her legs was pressed against Fareeha's, just enough so that with each bump on the limousine's travel they rocked against one another. Fareeha felt almost ill and dizzy at the same time.

"Perhaps," Satya said. "You should act on some of those foolish things."

"You think so. ma'am?"

"Without reservation or objection."

"It wouldn't b-..."

Satya grasped Fareeha's cheek, rubber grips on her prosthetic latching on tightly as she turned Fareeha's head to be pointed towards her own. Satya's azure lips pressed against Fareeha's in a gentle, almost featherlight, kiss. Fareeha's body tensed and relaxed in one fluid motion as if she were a toy wound up so tight that the wires holding her in place snapped. Her shoulders sagged and her left hand reached up to cradle Satya's elbow. She exhaled through her nose, Satya's eyes fluttering open and shut with the hot air buffeting her face. Satya's eyelashes tickled Fareeha's cheeks, causing her face to contort into a wide smile. The kiss lasted through it, staying just as light and affectionate as Fareeha gently guided it with her lips moving over Satya's, feeling the woman slide even closer, her prosthetic arm hooking around Fareeha's neck like a lifeline.

The remainder of a trip could've happened in five minutes or five thousand years. Time meant little to them as they gently explored each other with a truly tender kiss born of the circumstances around them; fear, stress, affection, lust, all of it came to a head the moment Satya's painted lips touched Fareeha's. Knowing you were part of the problem or a piece of some bigger puzzle didn't mean as much when you were cuddled in a comfortable leather chair, able to ignore it, and able to follow your heart. You could ignore it.

And they both ignored it in abundance.

By the time the limousine stopped, most of Satya's lipstick was a smeared mess on Fareeha's lips, the woman who normally never touched something as light as eyeline or foundation suddenly coated in a glamorous blue afterglow of her sudden dalliance with the woman she was sent to protect. Satya laughed out loud as she saw what she'd done, her thumb catching on Fareeha's lips as she cupped her cheek, a cheek so warm that it was clear to the world that she was blushing. Satya pulled a sanitary wipe from a dispenser in an armrest and cleaned Fareeha's face tenderly. Fareeha watched her work, Satya's eyes darting faster than she could keep track of them. They were a distracting, dizzying pool to get lost in, a leaf in the wind that seemed unreachable yet they instinctly made her want to chase it.

"Maybe you could join me upstairs, Fareeha. For something a little more substantial than a kiss in the back of a company car."

"I'd like that."

Satya disposed of the sanitary wipe and patted Fareeha's blushing cheek. "I'd like that....?"

"I'd like that, ma'am."

"Better."

Fareeha chuckled softly, pressing her lips to Satya's cheek as she crawled over to the door. One hand on her pistol and one hand on the door, she looked back at Satya. Politely, she waited until she was done reapplying her lipstick.

"You know," Satya said. "It wasn't that long ago that I was the nervous party."

"That was before I knew how capable you were, Symmetra. When you're used to being the one people look to when apocalypse comes to their door, seeing those same traits in another is... jarring. Are you ready to go?"

"I believe I am," Satya gestured for Fareeha to exit.

Opening the door, Fareeha did a quick glance of the courtyard. The protesters were kept a safe distance away from the Vishkar building but that didn't mean an assassin, or somthing less potent, wasn't waiting around. Holding her hand for Satya to wait, she scanned all avenues. Buildings or trees blocked most sniper positions, and the overhang above made it so that drone or aerial attack was unlikely; too big of a chance to miss and clip a balcony. She kept her hand on her pistol as she backed away behind the door and gestured for Satya to get out. She did, gracefully as she did with every single other action that she ever took.

"...Fareeha?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Call me Satya," she said quietly, pressing her lips to Fareeha's cheek. Leaving a blue imprint behind she made her way towards the building. "Dinner in twenty minutes. My apartment."

Fareeha slowly shut the door, her hand going slack from her pistol's holster, her thumb the only thing keeping it in place. She had no words to form, caught off guard by the kiss.

"Yes, ma'am..." she whispered to herself. 

This was going to be a very, very good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not condone the literary disarmament of protesting or anything but I feel that Symmetra's story is essentially that of a collaborator, at least at the beginning. To tell her story is to tell the story of someone manipulated into working for the machine that crushes others, likewise with Fareeha. Eat the rich, all cops are bastards, punch all fascists, kill all nazis, and black lives matter. Peace and love, kids. <3


End file.
